Travel by Chocolate

I still remember that sweet scent swirling around my nose, warming me from the inside as I breathed it in. That smooth, decadent taste as my teeth sank into a chocolate pillow. I’d never had anything so rich, so divine, so wonderfully fulfilling. When the cake reached my tongue, a little symphony of flavors played a piece across my taste buds: the blare of hazelnut, the chiming of white chocolate, the trill of cocoa powder. It was an experience so exquisite that I would have happily lost myself in it forever. That smell, that taste, will always remind me of home.

Dad was the one who made that chocolate cake for me when I was a little girl. In fact, he did everything for me. Mom left when I was just a baby, so Dad was left to raise me on his own: changed my diapers, showed me how to ride a bike, taught me how to drive a car. As a kid I called him “Superdad” because I actually believed he was a superhero, being able to shoulder all of that responsibility and raise me by himself. Dad died when I was eighteen; I was left behind feeling lost and lonely, careening into a bottomless abyss.

I’m thirty now. It’s been twelve years since I last saw Dad, but I can still remember everything about him. The crinkles around his eyes when he laughed. The soft lines in his forehead whenever he was in deep thought. The way it felt when he scooped me up as a little girl and placed me on his shoulders as I giggled and gazed in amazement at the world around me. He was my best friend for eighteen years. He was my home.

I don’t know where I am now. I don’t mean physically – I still have cognitive awareness – but in life. I feel like an asteroid floating through space, with no concept of where I’m headed or what I’m going to run into. Or if I’ll even care. I’m in a place in my life where I’m struggling to understand my purpose on this earth, if I even have one. Is there a point to life? Am I just uselessly searching for the great white whale of existence? I would have thought that by thirty, I would be married, I’d have a stable job, I’d be settled into a life I’d chosen for myself – a life I truly wanted to live. But, to be honest, I don’t have any of that. What I do have is a string of failed relationships, a track record of jumping from job to job, and absolutely no sense of stability. I am the asteroid when all I really want to be is home.

This is a season of life that’s made me remember just how much I miss Dad. He was always unfailingly supportive, especially in the moments when I needed it the most. “It was just one test, kiddo,” he’d say after I did poorly on an exam in high school. “I’ll spend every night studying with you before the next one and you’ll do great – you’ll see!” I knew I could rely on him for guidance in any situation. He was always there, unconditionally, no questions asked. Until one day, he wasn’t.

I want to feel connected to him again. For some reason, I feel like it’s the only thing that will help me to find direction, to plant my feet firmly on the ground. I stand in my kitchen and think for a moment. It seems so dark compared to the bright kitchen of my youth. I guess when Dad died, he took the light with him.

I open one of the cabinets above the stove and pull out an old cookbook, full of yellowed and tattered pages sticking out. I blow the dust off the cover and gaze at the title: Our Family Cookbook. Dad loved to cook and bake; he probably had a couple hundred recipes in there. I flipped to page 17, a page I’ve been familiar with since I was a kid, and find the recipe for that indescribable chocolate cake. It’s the recipe that Dad and I bonded over the most…the one that has stayed with me.

And so I start pulling out everything I need. Butter, eggs, flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and all that mouthwatering chocolate. Watchfully whisking all the ingredients together, wishing it was Dad preparing the cake instead of me. I’d never made it without him. I feel a strange emotion I can’t quite put my finger on. I’m not sad, exactly, but I’m not happy either. I suppose it’s the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia: sadness and happiness swirled and mixed together in one heart.

A short while later, I hear the ding of the kitchen timer. As I open the oven door, that familiar aroma enters my nostrils and a feeling of warmth washes over me. I can still identify every individual scent, every type of chocolate, even without tasting it. I close my eyes and let my other senses take over for a moment. I feel like I’ve gone back in time.

Once the cake has cooled, I don’t hesitate to dive into it. I slide the knife into its softness, then again, to pull out a large triangular piece. It looks just like it did when Dad used to make it. I stick my fork in and open a portal to my past. As I bring the cake up to my mouth, I can feel the symphony already preparing to play on my taste buds; they’ve been waiting for this moment for a very long time. I put the fork in my mouth and close my eyes, and there it is: that beautiful music. The hazelnut, the white chocolate, the cocoa powder. It tastes like my childhood. A tear rolls down my cheek, eyes still closed.

And then I feel Dad’s presence.

While my eyes are still closed and I continue to be swept away by the decadence of this cake, I feel a breeze come in through the open window above the kitchen sink. I open my eyes as I hear the pages of the cookbook flutter, not wanting any of the old pages to fly out. I go to shut the window and return to the cookbook to make sure everything is still there.

When I look down at it, my mouth drops.

The breeze had blown the cookbook to the very first page:

Here are all my favorite recipes that I’ve collected over the years. I hope that one day, you will look back on the times we spent making them together and go on to recreate them yourself. You are the light of my life, kiddo. I love you forever. Dad

I love you too, Dad.